And They Lived Happily Ever After
by dancingloki
Summary: It's love at first sight when Sherlock meets the new forensic doctor replacing Anderson-but will he manage to net the mysterious John Watson, or will he inadvertently send him screaming?
1. Chapter 1

Written based of this post: bulecelup dot tumblr dot com/post/52278342905/and-they-lived-happily-ever-a fter-sorry as a gift for doctorjamwatson, to whom I am entirely too nice despite the fact that she's an ungrateful rat.

...

Sherlock slammed the cab door behind him, carefully keeping his face in a look of schooled disinterest. He'd been very careful not to let Lestrade know how pleased he'd been to get his call. It had been a full week without anything interesting happening, and his experiments were boring him lately; another day without something to _do_, and he might well have done himself an injury. Either that or destroyed another piece of furniture, and gotten a round scolding from Mrs. Hudson as a result.

At any rate, he'd jumped for joy (quite literally—onto the table, in point of fact) when his mobile rang with the DI's number on the screen. He'd sounded appropriately bored, of course: "oh, well, I _suppose_ I could be troubled; if your team's at your usual level of inadequacy, _someone_ must keep London's criminality at bay", etc and so on.

It didn't promise to be anything terribly interesting, from what Lestrade had told him. The (_woefully_ incompetent) quote-unquote "authorities" tended to assume that the more elaborate and dramatic crimes must always be the Crime of the Century. From what little he'd allowed Lestrade to tell him, the police were under the impression that they were dealing with some sort of esoteric cultist serial killer, and of course they were wrong, as usual.

He breezed past the police line with a nasty sneer in Sergeant Donovan's direction; Lestrade was waiting for him outside the building. "Sherlock, thanks for coming."

"Yes, yes," he waved away the detective's welcome impatiently. "I'll start with the corpse. You said the second floor?" and he brushed roughly past into the front hall, heading for the stairs. Lestrade hurried after him.

"Listen, Sherlock, before you go in there—Sherlock, could you hang on just a second for _Christ's_ sake?"

Sherlock paused on the landing with a scoff and a roll of his eyes. "You've already warned me how terribly _gruesome_ this particular murder is, I assure you I adequately prepared myself for the _shock_." His voice dripped sarcasm, and Lestrade scowled.

"Look, I just wanted to warn you: Anderson's been transferred away. Some top-secret agency recruited him, he's moved to Cardiff."

"More pity their agency," Sherlock smirked, unimpressed. "At least he can't inflict his idiocy on my investigations now. Cardiff should suit him, maybe he'll meet a nice ewe and settle down. _Please_ tell me you've managed to find a replacement that's at least _marginally_ more competent than he was, although in all honesty that wouldn't be difficult."

"You know," and Sherlock cringed internally—he was _really_ not going to sit through the "why can't you play nicely with the other children" speech again—"you might have found him easier to work with if you didn't constantly insult him."

"Oh, was he insulted?" Sherlock spat back. "I didn't realize he had the IQ to actually _understand_ the things I was saying to him."

"Sher_lock_…"

"Do we have a new forensic specialist or not?" Sherlock interrupted, heading down the hallway impatiently.

"Err…yes, we have a new forensic doctor, Sherlock," Lestrade stammered, clearly still trying to keep him from the crime scene. "He's going to—"

"Anyone but Anderson," Sherlock tsk'd, refusing to be diverted. "I suppose you've allowed him to _completely_ muck up the crime scene, despite my _repeatedly_ informing you that an unspoiled, uncontaminated scene is crucial for my deductions."

"He hasn't 'mucked _anything_ up', Sherlock, _we_ are the professionals in case you'd forgotten, and anyway he's only determining time of death, I told him to hold off on everything else until after you got here. Oh—John!"

"You must be Sherlock Holmes," said the short, stocky blonde emerging from the taped-off bedroom, fussing with his blood-drenched surgical gloves where they connected to his sterile garment. "I've heard quite a bit about you—I took everything Sally told me with a grain of salt, don't worry. Well, more like the whole shaker." He grinned, chuckling good-naturedly.

Sherlock's brain kicked into overdrive. A few dozen deductions flashed through his mind at near-lightspeed:

_Muscular, short haircut, posture when standing—military. Former, obviously, so an Army doctor, recently discharged. Face tanned, but chest pale below the shirtline, so recently back from a deployment somewhere with sun—the desert: clearly, Afghanistan or Iraq. Walked with a limp coming out of the room, but no discomfort when he's standing; it's as if he's forgotten about it. Psychosomatic, then; wounded in action, and limp's the after-effect of whatever injury caused his discharge._

_Non-ironic use of idiom, manner of dress and speech all suggest common upbringing and average intelligence at best. Still, medical training requires education, and even the idiots at Scotland Yard have _some_ hiring standards. A former Army doctor given a medical discharge hired directly by the police—he must have some skill at his trade._

_More importantly; from what Lestrade told me, the crime scene was horrific—the sort of gore and violence that would un-nerve even the most hardened soldier, yet he's completely unaffected. Covered in blood, yet not a hint of discomfort. So he's clearly not only acclimatised to violence, but a man of extraordinary courage with nerves of steel. He's heard all the horror stories Donovan can drum up about me, but he's still pleasant and friendly—and genuinely so, not the sort people put on when they're determined to put up with me._

_Both aspects of his profession—both the medical training, and the military followed by police—suggest high levels of compassion, a strong drive to help others. Unwillingness to pre-judge someone he has every reason to dislike indicates an open-minded, unusually good-natured individual. Furthermore, his refusal to simply accept Donovan's assessment of me suggests an exceedingly moral man with a highly developed sense of right and wrong—and an inclination to act on his ethics. His military career combined with the above suggests he'll have developed a strong sense of camaraderie, an intense loyalty to those he perceives as his friends._

_In summary, a kind, empathetic man, passionate in his pursuit of what is right. Willing to unflinchingly and without hesitation fight against injustice of any sort, unafraid of danger and without fear of personal injury. Supports and defends those he considers his comrades through thick and thin, as the saying goes; absolutely and irrevocably loyal. A friend for life. Conclusion: the perfect man. No—the perfect _partner.

Sherlock recoiled as if struck. If someone had told him half an hour before that such a thing as love at first sight existed, he would have scorned them out of _existence_. And yet. The impact of the conclusion he'd reached hitting his brain was like an arrow from Cupid's bow directly in the center of his forehead.

This 'John' was the perfect partner. The perfect _husband_. Sherlock decided then and there—he _must_ have him. There was a second bedroom in the flat he'd taken on Baker street; he could move John in there for now, and work on seducing him gradually. It shouldn't be too difficult to persuade him to move in; his Army pension would be next to nothing and Scotland Yard didn't pay that well either. God only knew what sort of run-down slum John was staying in at present, a flatshare in a nice part of London (with Sherlock covering most of the rent, of course) would be a welcome change.

He dove forward and clasped John's hands between his own, bloody gloves be damned, staring deeply into his eyes. _I must bring you home_, he thought.

"Uh…sorry, what?" John stuttered, staring at Sherlock like he'd grown another head.

_…Damn. Said that out loud, didn't I_.

Lestrade's voice, behind him, sounded completely and thoroughly fed up. "Sherlock, what in _blazes_ are you on about?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped John's hands, stepping back. "Nothing. Just…nothing. So, John, was it?"

"Ehrm, yes," John murmured uncertainly, looking to Lestrade for support. "Doctor John Watson, hello."

"Pleasure." Sherlock broke out his most charming smile. "So, then. Would you like to come round and have a look first, or shall I just send the movers directly?"

"I…sorry, what? I don't—I don't understand." Sherlock cursed himself silently; at this rate, the man would run off screaming before he could get him home.

"The flat," he supplied, trying to sound disarming. "I've been looking for a flatmate and I suspect you have as well. Life in London is expensive, the police don't pay that well and your Army pension won't contribute much—"

He heard John protesting weakly—"here, hang on, how did you know about—Greg, did you tell him I was—" but he kept on gamely.

"I've got a second bedroom and I get a very reasonable rate, my landlady owes me a favour. The flat's right in central London, very convenient. We should be quite comfortable. I'll phone for a cab while you clean up, and I can show you around the place."

He ignored John's look of stunned confusion—the doctor was adaptable, he'd get used to Sherlock's pace soon enough—and swept back towards the stairs, digging in his coat pocket for his mobile, but Lestrade blocked his way.

"Now hang on, Sherlock, you're supposed to be solving a bloody murder for me here, not kidnapping my forensic doctor! Go and examine the crime scene!"

"Oh what's the _point_, it's just a stupid home invasion," Sherlock whined, trying to edge around the DI, who growled in frustration.

"How can you _possibly_ know that when you haven't even seen the body?"

"Isn't it _obvious_?" Sherlock groaned, exasperated.

John folded his arms over his chest. "Not to _me_."

Sherlock perked up. John's folded arms and tone were feigning annoyance, but his dilated pupils and stance—leaning forward eagerly—betrayed his curiosity. Here was a chance to impress his future husband!

"The lock on the front door was picked, not forced. The killer wouldn't be so careful if murder was their only purpose here—they'd have just smashed their way in. In the downstairs hall, several valuable items were removed, and then replaced—the dust around them was disturbed, but only around the knick-knacks that might be worth pawning. I daresay you'll find the same on the household electronics—a thick layer of dust brushed aside within the last twelve hours, but with nothing missing."

He pushed past John—passing closer than was strictly necessary, taking care to brush against his chest with one arm—to poke his head into the bedroom.

"Look at the way the body is arranged. The pentagram is generally considered a Satanic symbol in pop culture, but it's actually Pagan in origin symbolizing the five so-called 'elements'—no self-respecting cultist would be so clichéd as to sacrifice a woman on one. Additionally, you won't have any luck tracing the meaning of the other symbols—they're all bastardizations of Cyrillic script." Lestrade craned his neck around the doorjamb to see where Sherlock was pointing.

"They're drawn in human blood, though," John observed. "Same type as the victim."

"Precisely. The pentagram and symbols were drawn in her blood, meaning they were made _after_ the woman was killed. If she'd been ritually murdered, they'd have been drawn ahead of time and she'd have been killed on top of them. Everything in the whole tableau is from this very house—this was a crime of opportunity, not a planned sacrifice."

"That knife's not exactly kitchen-standard," Lestrade said dubiously, rubbing at his chin. Sherlock resisted the urge to slap him as punishment for being so utterly _unobservant_.

" 'That knife' is a khanjar, a ceremonial dagger originating in Oman. Or didn't you notice the Persian-style rug in the front hall? You can't get dyes like that in the West, it's an authentic. The owners of this home were clearly well-traveled and had spent a significant amount of time in the Middle East." Sherlock drew himself up, reaching the home stretch of the deductions he'd been making since even before he set foot in the house.

"Obviously, this is a case of a simple thievery gone wrong when the criminal was surprised in the act by the unfortunate lady of the house, our victim. He grabbed the nearest weapon to hand, an ornamental khanjar on display as a memento from a journey to Omar—and having unintentionally murdered the inhabitant rather than simply divesting her of her valuables, attempted to cover his tracks by arranging the scene to resemble his idea of a ritual murder. The Satanic theme was no doubt suggested by the ornate Arabic inscriptions, which our uneducated thief wouldn't recognize. He then hastily replaced his loot to where he'd taken it."

He thrust his hands in his coat pockets, pronouncing his final conclusion with the air of a prophet speaking wisdom to the undeserving, unwashed masses. "He won't have taken nearly as much care with that as with the murder scene—he'll have been counting on the spectacle here to distract you. Dust the household valuables for prints, and you'll have your killer."

Sherlock braced himself for the usual storm of scorn and disbelief, but instead:

"Brilliant."

John was staring at him, amazement printed on his stunned smile.

"Amazing. Absolutely fantastic," he chuckled. Sherlock preened under John's awed gaze.

"So, the cab?"

"Oh, um—yes, why don't—I'll go and get cleaned up, I'll meet you downstairs."

"No rush," Sherlock winked, then whipped around dramatically, making sure his coat swept out behind him as he rushed down the stairs. He turned up his coat collar as he trotted down the front steps, jumping on the chance to sneer at Donovan again. _Trying to turn my John against me! Hah. I showed her_.

John came out of the building with perfect timing, just as the cab pulled up. Sherlock held the car door for him, his nerves thrumming with anticipation. How to make a straight man fall in love with him—that was the kind of puzzle that could keep a mind like his occupied for _ages_.

Sherlock grinned. This should be _fun_.


	2. Chapter 2

Back by overwhelming and inexplicable popular demand! This was supposed to be a crack one-shot, guys. But if you REALLY liked it THAT much, here, have some more. Also, cookie for those who spotted the Torchwood reference, you're my favourites.

...

"Honestly, I don't know what goes on in that great big ruddy brain of yours sometimes," John scolded, tutting disapprovingly. "I mean, really, Sherlock. Embarrassing that poor woman like that."

"She was _dull_," Sherlock protested. "And it was _true_, so what's the _problem_?"

"It doesn't _matter_ if it's true or not, you can't go spilling people's private matters all over the place just because you're _childish_," John said, with the exasperated air of someone who's made this argument enough times before to already know it's a lost cause.

"I was _not_ being _childish_," Sherlock grumped. John chuckled ruefully.

"Oh yes you were, you were being petty and childish and the only reason you _deduced_ the poor woman was because you got your pants in a twist over her _daring_ to doubt your brilliance and you wanted to punish her for it, because you're a prat."

The detective flopped over sideways on the couch, wrapping his dressing gown tighter around him and grumbling. "I still don't see why she got so damned _angry_."

John raised his eyebrows. "Are you really going to tell me that you're clever enough to work out she was born as a man, but _not_ bright enough to spot any reasons why she might want to keep her past private? You know that's not on, Sherlock, don't play dumb. Even you knows better than to out that kind of secret."

Sherlock sulked, refusing to answer him; John clucked his tongue and turned back to his paper.

He was miserable. It had been about nine weeks since their first meeting, and the systematic seduction of John Watson was decidedly _not_ going according to plan.

Phase one had gone off without a hitch. John had been suitably impressed with 221B; Sherlock had managed to head off Mrs. Hudson with his own figure for the rent—based on what he had (correctly, of course) deduced that John could comfortably afford—and the doctor had moved in that same week.

Unfortunately, phase two was not going so smoothly. Oh, they got on well enough; John was quite tolerant of Sherlock's various…not _flaws_, genius detectives don't have _flaws_…quirks. He found Sherlock's (admittedly, occasionally atonal) violin compositions pleasant, rather than an irritant; he was quite considerate of Sherlock's experiments; and he only threw a tantrum about body parts in the fridge _once_, and even then it was only because it was touching the pot roast.

Yes, all in all Sherlock's initial deductions of the man had been proved correct on all sides. John Watson truly was the perfect husband. Other than the occasional quarrel over who didn't pick up the milk when he allegedly said he would (as if he didn't have more important things on his mind!), their domestic life was very nearly perfect. The _problem_ was, John had this exceedingly annoying habit of insisting he and Sherlock weren't a couple.

Everywhere they went it was the same thing over and over! He treated John—well, dragged, really, if he was being honest, but still—to a nice romantic dinner at Angelo's, and John sent the owner off when he tried to bring a candle for their table. John insisted on correcting Mrs. Turner when she asked when he and Sherlock would be getting engaged. John scolded the new constable for asking him if his boyfriend was going to assist on the investigation. John very nearly had a row with the clerk in the corner shop.

It was _infuriating_.

_How_ on _Earth_ was he meant to convince John that their relationship was more than platonic?! He'd tried dropping hints, but apparently his doctor had got it in his head that Sherlock was oblivious to romance—Donovan was probably to blame—and seemed to think his innuendos were accidental. He'd tried flirting, but he _really_ wasn't any good at it. Short of just grabbing the man and laying a kiss on him (which he was _quite_ certain wouldn't be well received), Sherlock was out of ideas.

Sherlock Holmes! _The_ Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant mind, greatest detective on Earth, and he couldn't even manage a task as simple as making the love of his life fall for him! _Ridiculous_.

He was so busy stewing in his indignance and bemoaning the unfairness of the world that he didn't even notice when John's mobile started ringing. It wasn't until the words "address" and "right away" filtered through his shirty mood that his ears perked up and his attention was caught.

He disentangled himself from his robe, poking his head up over the couch back, only to see John wrapping himself up in his coat, a disgruntled look on his face. "What? John, where are you going?"

John waved his mobile despondently. "Lestrade. We've got a body, he needs me on the scene."

Sherlock popped up instantly, hopping over the back of the couch to invade John's personal space. "Excellent, I'll come with you!"

The doctor's eyes went wide, and he shook his head emphatically. "No. _Oh_ no."

He wheeled around, going out into the hall, but Sherlock followed him, pouting. "What? Why?"

"Because, Sherlock," John warned, "first, you can't just _show up_ to crime scenes, you only consult on cases Lestrade invites you on; and second, I'm still cross with you from that stunt you pulled this morning."

"W-what? _Why_?"

"Do you know you're repeating yourself?" John asked pointedly. Sherlock twisted his lips up in frustration.

"But I didn't _do_ anything," Sherlock protested, subtly shifting to get between John and the front door.

"You're not pouting your way out of this one, Sherlock," the doctor said firmly, pushing him to one side. "If you want to make it up to me, get those ears out of the freezer, they're disgusting."

"But they're an _experiment_!" Sherlock whined, but John was already gone. He growled in frustration and kicked the wall. Disaster, this whole business was an utter _disaster_. He stomped up the stairs and threw himself back down on the couch, shooting death glares at his mobile, which remained stubbornly silent.

It took him about fifteen minutes to exhaust his (always limited) supply of patience. He rolled off the couch and threw on the closest shirt and pair of trousers he could find, then he was out the door with his coat billowing behind him and his favourite blue scarf securely knotted.

John had jotted down the address of the crime scene on a notepad; a moment's shading with a pencil had revealed it. Sherlock glanced down at the scribble in his hand, repeating it to the cab driver brusquely before flopping against the seat in a huff. Enough sulking, it was time to take action. If John wasn't going to figure out they were made for each other on his own, well then Sherlock would just have to _make_ him see it, and step one would be solving this infernal murder so they could get back to what was _important_.

He bluffed his way past the police line without any trouble, wrinkling his nose in disdain at the smell of the filthy Central London alley. John was bending over the corpse of a young man, pointing things out to Lestrade, who listened intently. He crept up behind them, eavesdropping for a moment; John was explaining to the DI how the man had died, a group of stab wounds to the chest.

Sherlock was quite proud of how long he contained himself. He didn't interrupt until John got to time of death.

"So, by the lividity and the stage of rigor mortis, I'm estimating the time of death between midnight and three last—"

"Wrong."

Lestrade jumped; John simply growled in frustration as he straightened up, turning around to glare daggers. "Sherlock, I _told_ you _no_, you can't just thrust your way into any crime you please! Howdid you even—never mind, I don't want to know." Sherlock didn't have time to start pouting properly over his lack of interest (although, better if John doesn't know how Sherlock finds him—he won't get harder to follow) before John went on.

"So, all right, then," he said, crouching back down over the body. When Sherlock didn't answer right away, he prompted him again, sighing. "We all know you're dying to tell us how clever you are, so go on, go ahead. What did I miss?"

Sherlock allowed himself a catlike grin of victory. He squatted down next to John, pressing himself against his side. "You see this patterning, here, on the skin?"

John leaned in, twisting his head to one side to get a look. "It looks like…frostbite."

"Precisely," Sherlock beamed with pride.

"Frostbite?" Lestrade scoffed. "You can't be serious, Sherlock. It's only October, it didn't even drop below ten degrees last night."

"That's because he didn't die last night," Sherlock said impatiently. "This isn't your standard alleyway mugging, Detective Inspector. See the tattoo, there, on his neck?" He reached out to pull the man's coat collar down, only to have John slap the back of his hand.

Lestrade sniggered as John shot Sherlock a warning glare. "You're going to contaminate the crime scene." He pulled the coat down himself with one latex-wrapped hand, exposing the rest of the tattoo.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but continued. "It's a gang sign—the Southwark Slashers, to be precise."

"Daft name," Lestrade commented.

"Daft gang," Sherlock replied. "They don't get up to much—petty thievery, vandalism, a bit of minor drug trafficking; nothing to bring them to Scotland Yard's attention as a proper organisation. They only have about fifteen members at present, but they're trying to expand. Identify your victim—I'm sure his fingerprints will be on record for some minor crimes—and you'll doubtless learn from his family and friends that he's been missing for several days. That's where the frostbite comes into it."

Lestrade looked dubious; Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, isn't it _obvious_?"

"Sherlock, just spit it out," John said wearily.

"It's not really frostbite, it's freezer burn. Look. Recently, as I said, the Slashers have been trying to expand their territory and business. They've been pushing south and infringing on the claims of the significantly more powerful Peckham Boys, who it seems have finally noticed their presence."

"This can't be a gang killing," Lestrade protested, "they wouldn't leave him in an alley somewhere, they'd put him on display."

"And doubtless they did," Sherlock pronounced. "The men who killed him and the men who covered it up are not one and the same. The Peckham Boys killed him for trespassing, then dropped him off, still warm, on the Slashers' front doorstep as a warning. They knew they didn't have the strength or firepower to retaliate, they'd be crushed, but if they let such an insult go by unchallenged it'd mean the death of their gang; they'd lose too much face to ever recover. So they tried to hide it; stuck him on ice, let a few days go by, and then tossed him out here, expecting—quite correctly, I'm afraid—that you lot would mistake it for a simple mugging gone too far. Simple."

Sherlock stood back up abruptly, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. John shook his head. "Incredible," he said, grinning up at him. "I'll never get over it, honestly. All that from a bit of frostbite and an odd tattoo. Brilliant."

"Well," Sherlock demurred, "there were other indications, but I didn't see it necessary to bore you with the details." _Perhaps a little calculated humility can solidify John's good mood_? He wasn't sure it helped, but either way John had that adoring look in his eyes that Sherlock often felt he could live on forever, so he counted it a success.

Lestrade shook his head. "I'll phone up the Organised Crime Squad, if you're right this is their problem now." He trudged off to towards the squad cars, muttering under his breath.

As John straightened up, Sherlock jumped in. _All right. Mystery solved, John's pleased with me again. Step one successful, on to step two_. He grabbed the doctor's arm before he could follow Lestrade.

"John, I'm sorry."

John gaped at him, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock looked earnestly into his eyes. After a moment, he choked out: "A-are you…are you feeling all right?"

"Of course I'm fine, why?" Sherlock frowned.

"Only I don't think you've ever apologized before," John said, still staring. "For anything, _ever_."

_Damn, he doesn't believe me_! "But I _am_ sorry," Sherlock protested. "I _was_ a prat today, and I'm sorry. I'll even get rid of the ears, if you really want, I can find another way to do that experiment—"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, hang on," John interrupted him, hands raised. "What on earth has gotten into you today?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, self-conscious, and muttered. "I just don't want you to be cross with me anymore."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock," John said, a funny sort of smile on his face. "I'm not cross with you. I mean, yes, you're infuriating, but that's just…_you_, you know? You wouldn't be my Sherlock if I didn't want to punch you in the jaw every other time you open your mouth."

"I just…I want this to work," Sherlock mumbled. He'd _never_ been so…_honest_ with someone, never so vulnerable, but if he could trust _anyone_ with his true heart, it would be his John, right? That's what love is for, after all, isn't it? "I want," he made a half-hearted gesture with his hand between them, "I want _us_ to work."

John chuckled. "We work just fine. Be better if you'd get the bloody milk when you say you're going to, but still. Just…try and be less of a tosser, all right?"

They stood there for a moment grinning at each other with matching dopey smiles before Sherlock broke the silence. "So, dinner?"

"Yeah, I'm starving, actually," John agreed, and they moved towards the police line. "Thai?"

"Go out, or order in?"

"Hmm…order in, I think. A quiet evening sounds nice. We can put the telly on," and he shot Sherlock a cheeky grin.

Sherlock bit back his complaint about the idiocies of crap telly. He couldn't seem to hold on to a bad mood, though.

'My Sherlock.' That's what John said. '_My_ Sherlock.'

He probably didn't mean it the way Sherlock chose to take it, but still. Perhaps he'd been making more progress than he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

GOD DAMN PEOPLE I WAS GONE FOR LIKE A WEEK

_gah_

jfc tho fine here have another one

...

After seven months, Sherlock was still somehow uncertain. John may be unfailingly kind to and patient with him, but he was that way with all his friends! (And how bitter a taste was _that_ word in his mouth. _Friends_. Ridiculous concept.)

How could Sherlock secure John's _commitment_? He simply could not endure this uncertainty. It simply could not be borne. He must have some kind of assurance—some sort of guarantee—that this arrangement, even this feeble excuse for a relationship they currently shared, would last.

Of course John gave no indication of any dissatisfaction with their circumstances (beyond the ordinary good-natured squabbles), and made no noises to the tune of leaving. And after all, he was unlikely to find a better situation. He'd had no increase in income, and no chance of finding a more comfortable place in his price range.

But he didn't _want_ to hold John hostage to finance! He wanted John to _want_ to stay, to crave Sherlock's company the way Sherlock craved his! He glowered out of the corner of his eye at the doctor, who had his arms folded, eyeing Sherlock resentfully.

_Strictly_ speaking, John wasn't meant to be here. This was a rather boring bank heist that the Major Thefts unit couldn't sort out on their own; they'd called Sherlock in to work out how the robbers had gotten in and out without being seen. No bodies for John to forensic at. But he'd told Lestrade (who was only there himself because the Major Thefts unit captain refused to work with Sherlock directly—something about a heart condition; Sherlock had rolled his eyes when he'd heard) that he could only do his best work with John present, as a catalyst for his brilliance.

The fact that calling him in interrupted his date with Sarah (A fellow doctor. Odious girl. _Plain_.) was purely coincidence. Truly.

Sherlock smirked and turned his attention back to the bank manager. She was waxing eloquent, blabbing on and _on_ about how _first-rate_ their security was, how _unprecedented_ such an incursion was, how _unbelievable_ it was that someone could get in so easily. He'd tuned her out since she first opened her mouth; he'd deduced their whole security system on the way in, she had nothing to add he hadn't worked out on his own.

He'd also spotted four separate entrance routes and seven escape routes that bypassed their security. Unfortunately, he'd also satisfied his own mind that none of them had been used. So either the thieves had found a way in and out that Sherlock hadn't been clever enough to spot (ludicrous) or there was something else going on that he had missed (_also_ ludicrous).

And John being cross with him was _not_ helping his deductions. Of course, John here (even angry and surly) was better than John elsewhere (especially in that _temptress'_ clutches), that went without saying. But the glaring _was_ distracting. And Sherlock wasn't quite sure yet how he intended to win his way back into John's good graces—especially after such _obvious_ interference.

It was beneath him, he knew, but he'd been desperate! He'd tried _every_ way he could think of to get John to cancel his date (_abhorrent_ concept), but he'd _refused_. Even _scolded_ Sherlock for being too needy! Of course, he _had_ come when Lestrade called. That was a point in Sherlock's favour. But had he come because Sherlock needed him, or merely because his boss had insisted!?

Their domestic life was still as ideal as always, but he had no indication that John's feelings ran any deeper than when they began. If John wasn't invested in him, in _them_—if he'd be able to leave at a moment's notice… He mentally sighed, putting the matter aside temporarily. In the short-term, he had to improve John's mood, and an impressive, dramatic solution to the case would be just the ticket.

He sighed again, out loud this time; Lestrade shot him a warning glare but the manager didn't seem to hear him as she kept on babbling. Sherlock's bored gaze swept the room, then over the manager and—_oh. That's…interesting_.

Well, it looked like she'd wrapped up talking, or was close, at least. He cut through the final protestations and lamentation in a bored, indifferent tone.

"Yes, yes, certainly. And exactly how far in the hole are you?"

"I—I'm sorry?" she asked, suddenly flustered.

"Oh come now, Ms. Taylor," Sherlock scoffed. "I think we're quite beyond bashfulness, given your situation. How much?"

"I'm certain I have no idea what you could be referring to," she snapped, defensive.

"Your _debts_, Ms. Taylor, your gambling debts," Sherlock snapped right back. "Come on, now, how much exactly do you owe?"

She was flushed red and staring at the ground. After a moment, she stammered out the answer: "S-several h-hundred thousand pounds. I—"

Sherlock cut her off disdainfully; a glance at John showed that he had the doctor's rapt attention at this new development. "And is that before or after the money from the bank vault?"

"The money from—hang on, Sherlock, you've gone too far ahead of us this time," Lestrade quickly interjected before the manager could protest. "Go back and explain the bit about the gambling first."

"I came here to solve a robbery," Sherlock said snobbishly, "not get toyed with. This case is beyond simple, Inspector, even your simpletons can sort it out from here. Come along, John," and he made as if to sweep out dramatically.

John blocked his path with an outstretched arm. He was putting on a good show, keeping his scowl firmly in place, but the twitch in the corner of his mouth and the sudden lack of tension in his shoulders showed the amusement he was hiding. "Oh, no you don't. You only act all cryptic and superior when you're dying to show off, and yet you somehow insist on making us beg for it _every_ time. So go on, you've got your captive audience. Tell us what you worked out."

Sherlock hid a smile. _Victory_. "I think I above all others would know the tell-tale signs of an addict in withdrawal. Tremors, irritability, restlessness; she's hiding them well in false anxiety over the supposed theft, but one hound can smell another out." He smirked in her face.

"More important was this." He stretched out a delicate hand to point at the hems of her suit trousers. "Very interesting mud spatter, don't you think?"

Without waiting for a reply, he bent down, ignoring her protests to tug at the fabric. "The colour and texture is quite unique. South Sussex is somewhat of a drive from here, but I suppose an hour and a half is nothing in the interests of fueling a gambling habit."

He straightened up, leaning into her personal space and steamrollering over her sputtered objections to pluck several strands of coarse hair from her jacket. "Yes, as I thought. Brighton Racetrack, yes? I suppose you wouldn't dare go to any higher-scale place, and risk being recognised by someone you know. And I suppose the bookies give better odds on the races in a dive joint like that one," he sneered.

"Clearly there are risks, however," he continued. "As I'm sure you discovered, when you realised what sort of people you'd gotten yourself in debt to. You were clever, very clever, cleverer than most people who get themselves in a similar situation, and you very nearly got away with it."

He turned away with a callous look. "If you'd planted any sort of evidence of the supposed break-in, it would only have lead back to you, but a mysterious, impossible vanishing act—the 'thieves' would get away, the police would be stumped, and the insurance would foot the bill. Very clever, but not quite clever enough.

"They must have really been putting the screws on you to make you so afraid. You ran straight there as soon as the cash was in your hands, didn't you? Before you even called the police, I'll wager. But you should have taken the time to change your clothes. If not for the mud and the horsehair on your clothes, I might have dismissed your withdrawal symptoms as unrelated. But a serious horseracing debt plus a _very_ suspicious 'heist'," he marked the words with his fingers, "can only add up to a false theft."

Sherlock spun on his heels, nodding to Lestrade. "I daresay if you examine her financial records you can find enough proof to get a confession without too much difficulty." He drew himself up, proud as a peacock, but kept a nervous watch on John from the corner of his eye.

To his relief, the show he'd put on seemed to have smoothed John's ruffled feathers. The doctor kept up his scowl manfully, but Sherlock could read him as plain as a book. His eyes were crinkling with suppressed mirth, and his mouth kept twitching, trying to curl into a smile in defiance of his orders. Sherlock preened. "Well, John? Shall we?"

John, to Sherlock's annoyance, glanced to Lestrade for approval of their departure. Fortunately, the DI wearily nodded his agreement. Sherlock allowed himself a small grin as John followed him out, griping.

"You're really unbelievable, you know that? Bloody lunatic. Call me in here on my day off just to stand there like a tosser and get ignored. You didn't need me there at all, you idiot."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said loftily. "Your presence was absolutely essential."

John snorted. "I'll bet. As essential as a typewriter is to a python."

"Nonsense, John. You're an unparalleled conductor of light. I couldn't have solved the case without you there, I told Lestrade as much."

John rolled his eyes. "And the fact that it split up my date with Sarah had nothing to do with it, I suppose."

Sherlock started, guilty, and put on his best look of wounded innocence. "John, you don't really think I would do such a thing on purpose? I'd completely forgotten that was today until you mentioned it. And how is dear Sarah?"

"She's fine, not that you care." John rolled his eyes. "And don't tell me you forgot, you great mad git, you never forget anything you're having a snit about."

"_Snit_, what do you mean _snit_," Sherlock snapped, offended.

"I _mean_," John said patiently, "that when I told you I was asking Sarah out, you got a look on your face like you'd smelled something rotten."

"I did _not_," Sherlock protested, but John cut him off.

"Oh yes you did, and what's more you've been sulking for days. And don't think I don't know why. I may not be a great ruddy genius, but I can _deduce_ a thing or two on my own, and I've got your number, Sherlock."

John chuckled. Sherlock glared at him, refusing to answer; after a moment, he nudged Sherlock in the ribs with an elbow and whispered conspiratorially, "You're _jealous_."

Sherlock gaped for a moment before spitting out a vehement denial.

"You are, you twit," John laughed, "you're jealous of my going out with a girl, and it's perfectly ridiculous."

"I am not jealous," Sherlock protested weakly, but John just shook his head and kept sniggering.

"Honestly, Sherlock, it was just drinks, it might not even go anywhere. You don't need to get your pants in a knot over me going out for drinks."

"Frankly, John, I could not care less about your social life," Sherlock proclaimed grandly. John rolled his eyes.

"I'd be more likely to believe that if you didn't throw a tantrum every time I have a date. In all seriousness, though, Sherlock," he said, sobering suddenly, "what's that all about? You'd think I kicked your cat, the way you carry on."

"I haven't got a cat."

John rolled his eyes, refusing to be baited. "It's a figure of speech, as you know damn well. Now stop stalling."

"It's nothing," Sherlock huffed, resentful.

"Go on." Sherlock glanced down; John's face was open and compassionate. _Damn. Damn damn damn. He's going to make me _admit_ it, damn him_.

"I am occasionally…concerned." Sherlock was practically growling, spitting each clipped word between clenched teeth. "That…_socialising_ with people less…_complex_ than myself will lead to you finding me…_difficult_. To live with. And lead to our eventual estrangement."

He got a few steps down the street before he realised John had stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around to see the doctor staring at him in disbelief.

"You think I'll drop you if I get myself a girlfriend." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock nodded curtly, waiting for John to start lecturing him about _neediness_ again. _What a _rotten_ day_.

But, to his surprise, John's eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up and he let loose a full-belly laugh that drew stares up and down the street. Sherlock stood uncertainly while John chortled his way to quiet and wiped at his eyes with his jumper.

"Oh, Sherlock. You really—you really are something," John sighed, grinning. Sherlock knew his confusion was plastered all over his face, but he found himself unable to move. John closed the distance between them, though, and reached up to lay a slap on the back of his head.

"_Twit_," he said affectionately. "I'm not going anywhere, you great prat."

"…You're not?"

"Come off it. If I was going to drop you over something, I'd have done it already over something like those damn intestines in the fridge last week—and don't tell me 'it's an experiment', Sherlock, you _promised_."

"So you're not leaving?" Sherlock asked anxiously. He knew he was being ridiculous and he'd probably hate himself later for being so _sentimental_, but if it meant he had John's assurances, he was willing to swallow the shame.

"Of course I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere," John said fondly. "Idiot."

"You're insulting me a great deal more than usual today," Sherlock said sullenly.

"You deserve it a deal more than usual," John shot back. "And it's good for you to have a taste of your own medicine, might make you watch your tongue. But you don't have to be jealous, Sherlock. You're my best friend, nothing's going to change that. You're stuck with me. I'm not going to ditch you, or abandon you, or whatever else your massive intellect cooked up to worry over."

"Well. That is…a relief." Sherlock's mutter was resentful at best.

"Not that I could, anyway," John said with a sly look. "Scotland Yard would collapse without its Consulting Detective, and you can't deduce without me there, can you? My presence is _absolutely essential_. It'd be unpatriotic for me to leave you useless, and London defenseless against scurrilous horse gamblers."

Sherlock snorted in amusement. All was right with the world. Well, except…

"I suppose that was a tricky case," he said hesitantly, trying to sound casual and nonchalant.

If John spotted the hook, it didn't stop him from taking the bait. "Definitely. Would have left Major Thefts completely at sea. Not that it was a challenge for you."

"I did do well, didn't I," he prompted, trying for more compliments.

The doctor shot him a look that said he'd spotted his game, but played along nonetheless. "Brilliantly, Sherlock. You were absolutely magnificent. I mean, all of that, the gambling debts and everything, from just a bit of mud and hair! Fantastic."

"Well, it wasn't just that," Sherlock joked, pleased. "She did smell rather strongly of horse. Quite fragrant, I'm surprised nobody else noticed. People don't _observe_." John snorted, and they giggled together as they walked home.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was feeling very pleased with himself. His previous worries about John's commitments were entirely a thing of the past; John had become _very_ attached to him. Oh, they'd had a few mishaps as time went by; John kept finding himself _girlfriends_ (he pulled a face, sneering). But none of them lasted, Sherlock made sure of that.

It really was ridiculously easy. Oh, he pulled the usual tricks, of course. Purposely messing up or pretending to forget their names, giving snide commentary and backhanded compliments on their clothes or hobbies or occupations; but that wasn't the real triumph. The real triumph came when John himself laid the final blow.

A forensic doctor's schedule they could handle. It wasn't pleasant, of course; long and unpredictable hours, romantic evenings reliably spoilt by phone calls about waiting corpses. But it wasn't a real _problem_. The problem, of course, was Sherlock. He'd managed to rope John into assisting with his other, non-criminal investigations.

It wasn't that he _needed_ John, precisely. He didn't believe in partner dependence, it would be deeply illogical to deliberately enter into such an unhealthy relationship. But it was nice, to have someone close by to nag him to be _polite_ (ugh) and fuss at him to eat and just generally care about whether he was alive. And he couldn't deny that he somehow found it easier to think with his husband (as he privately already thought of him) nearby.

John's girlfriends were perfectly willing to forgive him being whisked away at a moment's notice by Scotland Yard. They were less willing to forgive him being whisked away by his (allegedly platonic) flatmate.

At length, they all realised that Sherlock would always be John's first priority. That when Sherlock called, John would go running. That Sherlock's needs would always come first. (Even when 'need' was applied very loosely. Such as he 'needed' someone to fetch his mobile from across the room because he didn't feel like getting up.)

And when they had their realisation, they would drop him. Occasionally they tried to 'talk it out', and John would promise to do better; but when Sherlock called, he still came. One girl actually gave him an ultimatum, which Sherlock found _adorable_. Her ploy failed, of course. John didn't _explicitly_ choose him over her—it was more a matter of considering her refusal to compromise unreasonable—but it was still a victory.

In a detached sort of intellectual way, he understood and almost appreciated their interest. The perfect husband appears before your eyes, of course you have a go at him. It's perfectly natural, any woman or man with _eyes_ would do it. Of course that didn't make him sympathetic to them. The arrogance of such ordinary, _dull_ people to believe that they could _deserve_ such a man! As if there was a world in which people so boring and stupid and _tedious_ could compete with a mind like Sherlock's for John's affections!

And yes, John's affections were less…_romantic_ than Sherlock wanted, but he was still working on that. In the meantime, he had John's company, his attention, his priorities, and the lion's share of his time. In terms of how they conducted their day-to-day affairs, they were effectually married, even if he wasn't getting shagged.

For now, he was wooing John as best he could. At times he nearly despaired—he felt like a bloody cat bringing dead mice to drop at John's feet, and the doctor finding his offerings just as disgusting—but he kept gamely on.

He used his established seduction techniques as much as he dared; regular eye contact, a brush of fingers down the arm, a clasp of the shoulder, a lingering pat on the back. He didn't care for it, though. It felt too…calculated, too deliberate, too _fake_. He used those kind of flirting tricks on suspects or witnesses to make them compliant; that wasn't really _him_.

If he won John's heart (well, not his heart, he already _had_ his heart; he was trying to win his _body_ just now) by such cheap tricks…well. He must be genuine, he _must_. Else, if he won John's heart (and other more interesting organs) by deception, John would one day—perhaps a year from now, or five, or twenty…one day he would wake up to realise that the man who won him over was not the same man he'd promised his life to. And he would leave, and Sherlock could not bear that. He must be himself, and let John love him for himself, or it could not last.

But it was taking _so long!_ And waiting was _boring!_ A _year_ and a _half_ it had been, and _of course_ John's friendship was rewarding and his company pleasant and his loyalty gratifying, but eighteen months without so much as a snog was bloody pushing it!

Sherlock had never been the most sexually active of men—his personality nipped that in the bud for him—but John piqued his interest in the way no other man or woman ever had. As a younger man he'd thought he must be asexual, but with age and introspection he concluded that he simply had other priorities. Sex took a backseat when there were so many _mysteries_ to solve.

But John…John was different. Just as his mind, painfully ordinary by any objective standard, had stood out above all others to Sherlock's attention, so too did his body. Sherlock found himself distracted by thoughts he'd never had to cope with before, and found himself disgusted with how _ordinary_ such desires were. He'd thought he was _above_ the mating instinct, not disinterested but simply superiour to those who were slaves to their passion. But his sexual frustration was starting to interfere with his work, and since John seemed to think sex was a requirement in a romantic relationship, steps clearly must be taken.

Having come to a decision, he rolled off the couch and leapt to his feet, shouting. "John!"

"Kitchen," came the slightly muffled reply.

"John, we're going out."

"We have a case?" John came into the living room, speaking around a mouthful of biscuit and precariously balancing two mugs of tea and a plate. He handed one mug to Sherlock, who dropped it carelessly on the side table, sloshing half its contents onto the floor. John glared at him. Sherlock looked at the tea, back at John, and folded his arms. John then sighed resentfully, set down his tea and biscuits, and trudged back to the kitchen to fetch a rag.

"No, we're having dinner. Wear your _nicest_ jumper, I feel like somewhere posh." He spun on his heels and marched towards his bedroom, letting his dressing gown billow out dramatically as John gaped after him.

Five minutes later he emerged, dressed in his best dark suit with the purple shirt Molly assured him he was irresistible in. (He had used to flirt with Molly to get favours from her, using the crush she utterly failed to conceal against her, but since meeting John he considered such a thing a betrayal. She was the only one he'd confided in about his true feelings for John—as loath as he was to admit it, he had no experience with personal relationships, and had needed advice from someone at least _marginally_ more knowledgeable.)

To his confusion, John was settled in on the couch with his tea and biscuits, and seemed to have no intention of moving. He'd even switched the telly on.

"John, what are you doing?"

John gestured at the screen without looking up. "Britain's Got Talent. It's a singing contest, you'd like it. Come watch, you can deduce all the candidates for me."

Sherlock sputtered. "Aren't you going to get ready?"

"For what?" John looked around, baffled, and choked on his biscuit. A moment's desperate coughing later, he sputtered out, "Why are you dressed?"

"Why _aren't_ you?" Sherlock countered, indignant.

"Why would I be?"

"Because we're going out for dinner!" Sherlock said peevishly.

John's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I thought you were joking!"

Sherlock glared down at John. "I am not joking, John, now go and get dressed."

John folded his arms, jaw set. "I just got comfortable, Sherlock. You can't spring things on me all of a sudden and expect me to just go along with it."

Sherlock could feel a pout coming on. This was _not_ how this evening was supposed to go. He was _supposed_ to whisk John away to a romantic dinner at an expensive restaurant, by the end of which John would have independently realised how perfect they were together and they would finally consummate their relationship upon their return to 221B. John was _not_ supposed to get sucked into the telly and refuse to leave the flat.

Well, never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes was too proud to beg when he'd no other option to get what he wanted. "…Please."

John was staring at him quizzically. He tried again. "Please, John." _Please don't ask me why it's so important. Please don't make me explain. _Please_ don't make me say it_.

After a moment John stood, with a heavy sigh and his most put-upon of expressions, and started tromping towards the stairs.

"…John?"

"Yes, all right, keep your shirt on."

"John, where are you going?"

"To change, obviously," came the disgruntled answer, thrown over his shoulder, followed by some indecipherable grumbling. Sherlock grinned, victorious, and dug for his mobile to phone a cab.

The restaurant was everything he'd wanted. Isolated table, dimly lit, romantic atmosphere, servers who didn't ask irritating questions or try to make conversation. Sherlock wasn't actually hungry (_food isn't the purpose of this sort of dinner_), but John gave him a Look, so he ordered the blandest and least interesting courses he could spot and picked at them while they chatted.

He was keenly surprised by how easily conversation came to them. True, most people would get along at least that easily after eighteen months; but Sherlock was not most people, and 'small talk' was a swear word from his point of view.

Still, he found even the small and unimportant things interesting when they came from his John. The doctor was between girlfriends at the moment, so he wasn't required to sit through any of _that_ sort of nonsense; instead, John told him about what Harry'd been up to, about catching up with old mates from Uni at the pub, about interesting corpses on investigations he'd missed. In return, he told John about his experiments, about the conclusions of the few non-criminal cases the doctor hadn't been present for, and whined about Mycroft for a while.

John was quite pleasant and pliable by the end of the entrée course. He kept smiling absently at Sherlock during each (very comfortable) pause in their conversation, and Sherlock was feeling very optimistic about the success of his plan. So, of _course_, there was no way such a pleasant evening could end without _some_ sort of disaster.

As disasters went, though, a fellow diner suddenly keeling over dead was right up Sherlock's street.

They'd finished their entrees and were debating dessert when a distinguished-looking gentleman in a three piece suit at a table on the far side of the restaurant began gagging, coughing and clutching at his throat, then collapsed to the floor. His young companion dashed to his side, shouting for help and frantically rummaging through his pockets, but to no avail.

John was on his feet instantly, trying to rush to the afflicted man's side, but the growing press of people prevented him. The young man clenched the older man's jacket desperately and shouted to the crowd for help, begging for an epipen. But none was forthcoming, and the man choked and rattled and died, there on the floor

Sherlock glowered at the inconvenience. _Doubly_ so when the police and EMS came barging in (entirely too late, as was their wont) and recognised John, who had finally fought his way through the crowd to the body, Sherlock just behind him. To Sherlock's chagrin, they instantly drafted John into helping inspect the body! Absolutely and completely unfair.

He sulked his way into the center of the press of people, keeping as close to John as he dared without risking a scolding for being in the way. Nearby, a constable was interviewing the deceased's young paramour; Sherlock leaned in to eavesdrop.

"It's so t-terrible," the young man was sobbing as the officer consoled him. "He was s-still so _young_…"

The constable said soothingly, "We're so sorry for your loss, Mr.…"

"S-Stevens, Kyle Stevens, I-I took his n-n-name," he sobbed brokenly.

"And were you together long?"

"N-no," he stammered out, getting his composure. "S-sort of a whirlwind romance. We met about a year ago, I w-was temping in his office and he j-just sort of swept me off my feet. I know the age d-difference was a lot, but w-we _loved_ each other. We've been married four months. Well, civil partnership, but you know. I just d-don't understand how this could _happen!_" and he was _wailing_ again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The officer clucked and tutted. John came up to stand next to Sherlock, shaking his head dolefully. "Damn shame."

"How did he die?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head.

"Anaphylactic shock. Must have had terrible allergies."

"H-he did," the young man choked out. Sherlock looked down; his pretty, tearstained face was turned up, fixing Sherlock and John with a lost stare. "V-very severe ones. To p-peanuts, and shellfish, and s-some sorts of fruits. There must h-have been something in his f-food, he c-checked with the waiter b-but I guess it g-got contaminated somehow…" His eyes were welling over with tears.

"Didn't he carry an epipen?" John asked kindly.

"_Yes!_" he wailed, snatching wildly at John's cuff with eyes blown wide. "I don't know how this could have _happened_, he was always so _careful_, he keeps it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he _never_ leaves home without it! Oh, how could this _happen_…" and Sherlock contemplated gagging him with his scarf. He might have done it, too, if John didn't look so damned sympathetic.

The maître d'hôtel and head chef had arrived on-scene as well, and were holding a hushed conversation with the chief inspector. The chef was just finishing explaining the precautions they take to safely accommodate allergies.

"…so as you can see, we're very thorough," he concluded, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't understand it, I really don't. I've been a chef for seven years and a sous-chef for nine before that, and I've never had an incident before, never. We took all the precautions we could have, far beyond what the health code requires." The maître d' nodded his head in solemn agreement.

The inspector cleared his throat, scribbled a final word in his notebook, and snapped it shut decisively. "Well, of course we'll have to go through the official channels, but based on what I've heard now and Doctor Watson's examination—" he nodded to John— "it's clear this was a simple case of accidental death."

"Wrong," Sherlock said, without looking up from his mobile.

John looked up, surprised; the chief inspector, next to him, sneered at Sherlock. "Oh yes, d'you think so? And who are you, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said flatly, disinterested. "John, if you're done here, shall we?" He turned to leave, but the youth snatched at his coat, holding him back.

"W-_wait_! If it wasn't a-accidental, then—y-you can't mean my Peter was—"

"Murdered, as well you know," he huffed, pulling his coat away. He saw John mouth the words 'as well you know' and his eyes widen as he realized their implication.

The chief inspector snorted. "Watson, we welcome your expertise as a _professional_," he stressed, putting special emphasis on the word, "but that doesn't mean we're going to let your boyfriend run around during a police investigation making unfounded and _very_ serious accusations. Put a leash on him or get him out of here."

Sherlock reared back, ready to flay the man's flesh from his bone with the sheer force of his scorn, but John spoke over him. "He's not—" Sherlock held his breath, if John denied him he couldn't bear it, but— "I mean, we're—look, it's just not like that. He's a—a consultant, he works for Scotland Yard, DI Lestrade will confirm it. Look, Sherlock, I think you'd just better explain."

Sherlock breathed out. John hadn't denied their relationship; all was well. And of course he'd had every intention of explaining from the beginning, but nothing guaranteed an audience riveted on your word like cryptic statements. As he opened his mouth to present his evidence, though, the recently accused (solely by Sherlock, that is) murderer interrupted him, blurting out, "Y-you don't mean to suggest that _I_ had anything to do with h-his death, d-do you? I d-didn't, I _c-couldn't_ have, I _l-loved_ him—"

"Yes, yes, spare us your tired protestations," Sherlock sighed wearily. "You're fooling no-one. Well, no-one with a brain, at least. Oh, not like that, John, you know what I meant."

John glared daggers, but waved down the inspector's protestations. "Get on with it, Sherlock."

"Yes, right." He turned his full attention to his deduction. "You made a point of his epipen, didn't you? Not just that he always carried it, you made a special point of saying _where_. Inside pocket of his suit jacket, that's what you said, isn't it?" Kyle nodded, wide-eyed, as Sherlock continued.

"Then why make such a show of searching his clothes? If you knew he _always_ kept his epipen in his coat, you'd have looked there first and only searched the rest of his pockets when you realised it was missing. But you didn't, you started with his trousers. Why?"

"I'll tell you why," Sherlock continued before he could answer. "You already knew it wasn't there. Because you removed it, before leaving for the restaurant. And you couldn't risk someone actually having one, that would have spoiled everything, so you made a great show of searching his clothes to stall as long as possible until it would be too late."

"Is that all you've got?" the inspector scoffed, interrupting. "Not much proof of anything. He probably just panicked, you would too if your husband'd just keeled over."

"I assure you I would not," Sherlock said coldly, "and that is certainly not 'all I've got'." He turned back to Kyle, who was _crying_ again. _Ugh_.

"You described your relationship as a 'whirlwind romance,' but that's only half of it, isn't it? The truth is you were manipulating him the whole time. From even before the moment he laid eyes on you, I suspect." He leaned down into Kyle's face, the man frozen rigid in place.

"You say he swept you off your feet, but really, he fell into your web, didn't he? The black widow, that's what you are. It was easy, I expect. He was a hopeless romantic, that much is obvious just from the table."

"Th-the table? What?" the inspector blustered. Sherlock straightened up to glare at him.

"The table, yes, _obviously_. Look at the way it's arranged—both men on the same side of the table; cozy, certainly, but not exactly standard table formation. And those roses—they have to be specially requested for the table. He wouldn't have put so much thought into this evening unless he really loved you. You doubtless found him easy to snare; a man in love will do anything for his partner." He glanced at John, only to see a strange blank look on his face that he didn't quite understand.

He cleared his throat, continuing. "So you seduced him, won his heart, married him, and killed him." He leaned in close again, staring straight into his eyes with icy menace. "You shouldn't have done that. A man who loves you, who's devoted to you, who always cares for you and defends you and comes to your aid, you should _cherish_ a man like that." One long finger jabbed into Kyle's chest. "You should never have betrayed him like that. Making him think you loved him while hiding your heart from him—_that_ was worse even than murder."

A tense moment passed, staring each other down. Sherlock's glare was hate-filled and fraught with fury; Kyle's frozen and emotionless. After a pause, John spoke quietly, his voice low and tight. "Sherlock, can you prove this?"

Sherlock started; he'd nearly forgotten the others were there. "Y-yes, I—I believe so." He turned to the officer. "Inspector, turn out his pockets, and you should find the proof you're looking for." A brief search resulted in a small bottle of pills, which Sherlock snatched up triumphantly.

"As I thought, Zonisamide, a common anticonvulsant. Anticonvulsants can often trigger anaphylactic shock; this one particularly affects those allergic to sulfanomide, which people sensitive to sulfite are often vulnerable to. And sulfites are found in shellfish, which you already stated the deceased was allergic to." He sneered down at the young man.

"There's no honest reason for you to have this medication. Don't bother claiming you have epilepsy; unlikely without a medical bracelet, and you won't have been so thorough as to have falsified your medical records. You didn't expect to get caught with the pills."

To the inspector, he said, "A standard autopsy wouldn't have noted the drug in his system. Not that you'd have performed one, for an accidental death. But if you test for it, you'll doubtless confirm my deduction. You should find the same substance in his food or drink as well." He stared down his nose at the murderer (now widely accepted as such), currently held between two constables. "Do you intend to keep denying it?"

A slow, cruel smile spread over his face, transforming him completely. "I suppose there's no point now," he said, all hint of stutter gone. "You're right about the drug, of course. They'll find it in his stomach. The idiot was allergic to damn near everything, and it was _laughably_ simple to get my hands on."

"But…why?" John asked, a slight tremor in his voice. "He—he loved you, if you didn't feel the same you could have just left him, why—why this?"

The hurt and confusion on John's face made it hard for Sherlock to restrain his rage, especially when the bastard _laughed_. "If I divorced him, I'd barely get half. Not nearly enough to maintain my preferred lifestyle."

John looked disgusted, and Sherlock physically held himself back from slapping the smug look from the sadistic bastard's face. "So it all comes down to money. Disappointingly predictable. Tell me, was the inheritance enough, or were you going for the insurance as well?"

"Insurance too, of course," he smirked. "A man with those kinds of allergies, he puts his life at risk with every meal. He wouldn't _dare_ leave his poor beloved sweetheart vulnerable to poverty if he had an unfortunate accident, I made certain of that."

"You bastard," John muttered darkly, starting forward. Sherlock put out his arm to stop him.

"Leave him to the police. He can't escape justice now. I just have one question," he asked Kyle. "The only thing I can't seem to work out. Why all the complications? If he's so allergic to so many things, why not just slip some of them on his plate? The whole mess with the medication seems very unnecessary, and oddly complex."

"I know it's hard to believe, but he had an _insane_ sense of smell. It's probably the only reason he survived this long, honestly. If I'd tried actual food, he'd have sniffed it out in a second. The meds only worked because they hadn't any smell."

"…Hmm." Sherlock pulled a face. "That's…_incredibly_ implausible."

Kyle shrugged, and the constables lead him away. Sherlock felt fingers close around his wrist; John's face was drawn and tight. He wrapped his free hand over John's comfortingly. "Come on, John. Let's go home."

"…Yes, all right." The maître d' put their meal on the house for solving the crime, and John kept hold of his wrist the whole time they were waiting for the cab. But it didn't put the warm, fuzzy feeling back into his gut—not when John looked so deeply unhappy.

After a moment, John spoke up, so quietly Sherlock would have missed it if John wasn't leaning so close in to his shoulder. "You really worked all that out just from his epipen search?"

"Not just that. It made me suspicious, but…" Sherlock sighed. "This is going to sound mad coming from me, but it was a _feeling_." John snorted, and he chuckled softly. "I know, but really. I was observing him when the constable was interviewing him, and…the way he was acting, it just felt false. He was saying the right things, doing the right things, his body language was perfect, but it _felt_ feigned, that he was just faking the affection he was showing. I can't properly explain how I knew."

John sighed. "I knew you had a heart." Sherlock half-smiled, sad.

"I've been reliably informed in the past that you're wrong about that."

"Well, they were wrong, and you were brilliant," John murmured, sounding very tired. "I'm proud of you."

Sherlock's chest swelled and his heart felt tight. John stayed close to him the whole ride home. They only separated on the landing back in their flat, Sherlock clearing his throat, self-conscious. "Well, John. I'm…I'm sorry tonight was spoiled."

"Dinner was lovely, until the murder," John quipped with a wan smile. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

"Yes, well." He shifted from foot to foot for a moment, then said awkwardly, "good night, then, John."

He turned around and headed for his bed, but—

"Sherlock."

When he looked round, John had the same odd blank look on his face he'd had in the restaurant.

"Earlier, when you were deducing, you said the roses had to be specially ordered for the table. You were proving the dead man was romantic, remember?" Sherlock's throat had gone tight; he could only nod.

"How did you know, Sherlock? That the flowers had to be requested. How did you know?" John took a half-step forward. "There were roses on _our_ table, Sherlock."

He tipped his head sideways, an odd half-smile on his face. "Tonight was supposed to be a date, wasn't it? I mean a proper one. Am I right?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment, but nodded. John shook his head and made a sad sort of huffing chuckle. Sherlock was lining up all the excuses in his head that he could think of. Reasons for John to stay, reasons they could still be friends, reasons for John not to hate him, but before he could start listing them, John took another step forward.

"Our first proper date, and you were going to let it end without kissing me goodnight? Bad form, Sherlock. You know better." The doctor was smiling in earnest now, his face holding nothing but amusement.

Sherlock found himself truly speechless, for the first time in his life. John started sniggering.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are _hopeless_. Honestly, for a great bloody genius, you're the biggest moron who ever…just come here." Sherlock mutely obeyed the summons, stepping forward towards John, who smirked. "I suppose this has been inevitable for a while now. After how much of your nonsense I put up with, we're practically married already, anyway. It's about time I got a bit of a snog off you."

Sherlock swallowed hard, stunned, when two strong hands wrapped around his scarf, pulling him down to the doctor's level. Before he could do more than blink and start to panic, though, soft lips met his and his whole brain went sweetly, mercifully blank.

He forgot everything, his deductions, the passage of time, every word in his vocabulary. His whole world was limited to the heat of John's mouth against his. And best of all, the effects _lasted_, even when John pulled away.

His favourite voice filtered through the haze of contentment. "Just one more thing. What the hell did you mean when you said you wouldn't be upset if I got murdered?"

Sherlock abruptly snapped out of it and started trying to form an explanation. "John, I didn't mean—of course I'd be _upset_, but—"

"But you wouldn't be shaken by it, though, is that it? It wouldn't rattle your composure at all?"

John looked _cross_. Sherlock sputtered, and when John's frown deepened, he forcibly got a grip on himself—and on John's shoulders. "John, you are _everything_ to me, and if something happened to you, I would not _allow_ myself to become hysterical because I would be too busy tracking down the culprit and _eviscerating_ them."

He stared into John's eyes, earnest and serious. After a moment, John snorted, and started to smile. "I'm only _teasing_, you idiot."

The doctor grinned at the slack-jawed, stupefied look on Sherlock's face and shook his head. "Come to bed, Sherlock," he chuckled fondly, and lead him by the hand towards the stairs.

...

A/N: This is it. The final chapter. There will be _no more_, no matter how much you beg. Also, yes, the Lampshade Hanging was a direct result of me realising I'd written a serious plot hole in the eleventh hour and having done too much research on anticonvulsants to swallow changing it.


End file.
